Thou Shalt Not Transgress
by Herr Fritz
Summary: Sherlock has created a list of transgressions, and the form of revenge appropriate for each one made against him.  He has thus neglected to inform John of this list.
1. Transgression no 1

_Transgression #1: Nobody may touch Sherlock's skull without his express permission._

Sherlock's human skull had always been a constant source of interest for John.

The interest had started out as horror. _Had Sherlock offed the original user of the skull?_ It had then morphed in into a morbid fascination. _Where did one acquire an actual skull legally, anyway? _Then it had finally settled into a calm curiosity. _Sherlock would be a strange flatmate to have indeed!_

If John didn't know any better, he would have believed Sherlock considered the skull his best friend. This stemmed from the constant surveillance and protection the detective granted the (former) man. Sherlock refused to let the skull out of the flat unless _he_ was the one carrying it; he insisted on it having a clean spot on the mantle, even as he and John lived in the squalor of constant cases; he even treated it with respect, a kind _of reverence _even, that he would never grant Donovan, Lestrade, or even John himself.

It wasn't long before John's interest in the skull enticed him to humble himself and boost Sherlock's ego.

Standing in the kitchen, John cast a longful gaze past the lounging Sherlock to the far side of the den and the skull that sat there.

"Hey Sherlock? Can I ask you a favor?"

On the couch, the detective's head almost visibly swelled.

"Of course. I can answer anything you need to know."

For a moment- just a brief flash- blood began to pound in John's forehead; however, he persevered. The skull was worth Sherlock's insufferable vanity.

"Can I look at your skull over there?"

Sherlock looked up at his flatmate. "By 'look', do you also mean 'touch', 'handle' or otherwise 'violate the space of'?"

"Um... that's what people generally mean when they ask to _look_ at something."

"Then no."

John's air of disappointment seeped into the room, hanging there even after he left. Sherlock remained sitting for a while after, absorbed in a deducing of his own. Hours passed. The sun fell back behind dark clouds. A wind picked up and pounded on the window shutters. It began to drizzle, turning into a downpour that pattered on the roof. Slowly, the noise roused the detective.

"It was damp..." He murmured, then blinked in comprehension. With a start, Sherlock jolted up. "His alibi is false!"

In a newfound rush, he grabbed his jacket and phone, making his way to the door. The moment his hand set on the knob though, he froze. He turned, made his way to the mantle, and stared at the skull there. Once the scene was etched into his mind, he finally made his way out, hardly disturbed by the fact his skull warranted priority over the well-being of a young boy, his three friends, and a very scratched up Queen C.D..

/-/

It wasn't until midnight that Sherlock and John burst through the front door, laughing to wake the dead.

"I- she was supposed to be- didn't think- insomniac!" John managed to squeeze out before he lapsed into new giggles.

"But his alibi was flawed! The rain couldn't have damaged the C.D., it was the _cassette_!" Sherlock confirmed.

"Ah... I'm going to die an early death because of you!" John insisted, the pair's laughter subsiding. "You make me skip meals, ignore Sarah for days, put my life on the line _far _more often than is healthy, and to top it off-" A yawn broke his tirade, just to make a point for his last complaint. "I'm about to die from lack of sleep."

Sherlock tisked, disappointed at the infiltration of _normalcy_. "Fine. Go."

Without further urging, John ran to the inner rooms of 221B, glad for the first use of the bathroom. Not far behind, Sherlock trailed up, having to grab a few things for a pre-bed experiment. As he passed the mantle, he sent a fleeting glance over, then continued on his way.

Moments later, the detective was back at the mantle, trying to figure if he was right, or experiencing some hallucination.

No, it wasn't Sherlock's imagination. His skull was, in fact, facing sixteen degrees further to the right than when he had last left it!

Sherlock never got angry; that would be normal, and too simple for him. Instead, he let a simmering disapproval morph into rage; a rage that warranted retribution.

Sounds of John finishing his shower carried to the den, followed by the remains of preparing for bed, and a halfhearted 'good night!' to Sherlock, who continued to stare at his skull. Only when the flat grew utterly silent did the detective make his move.

Swiftly, he made his way to John's own bathroom, knowing exactly where to find what he sought. Contrary to John's complaints of the aged flat, not a single floorboard creaked as Sherlock stalked up the stairs. Not needing to enter the bathroom the whole way, he reached his arm in, fingers quickly flitting across the vanity surface before grasping a long, cool piece of metal.

Prize in tow, Sherlock than worked to John's room. Standing above his flatmate, he held the swiped razor high. A shaft of moonlight shone in from the night sky. Like a horror film, an unstable smirk spread across the detective's face. Tonight, his revenge would be swift indeed.

/-/

The next morning was calm. Mrs. Hudson could be heard busying about in her kitchen, making a breakfast Sherlock was sure to charm her into giving to him. Even though the flat was in the heart of London, it was not forsaken by nature as birds sang outside the window, accompanying the cool summer breeze and soft sunlight that flowed into the flat. Sherlock leaned against a wall, not taking in the beauty, but appreciating the calm that went in hand with it.

A shout from upstairs sharply broke the calm. There was tromping down the steps and John was there, livid with rage.

"The hell, Sherlock!"

Sherlock calmly glanced over to him. "That's an incomplete sentence, John."

The doctor glowered at him. "You know damn well what I'm talking about!"

It was then that Sherlock took in the rest of John's countersense. Though his face was complete with rage, there was a particular feature missing from his flatmate.

"John. Your hair's gone."

For a moment John's eyes flitted upwards, but he caught himself before checking what he already knew. Looking back at Sherlock, he narrowed his eyes.

"That's all you have to say?"

Sherlock thought for a moment. "Well, I _am _surprised. I always thought you liked your hair, seeing that you made a point to have it trimmed by the fourth most expensive barber in London twice a month."

As John stood, debating what to say, satisfaction welled up inside Sherlock. Justice against the transgression had been reaped.

_Revenge: The transgressor shall find their own head inconveniently skull-like._

/-/

Did you get the Good Omens reference?


	2. Transgression no 2

_**Got the second transgression up and am working on the third! Thus far, I think the third idea's my favorite. This one isn't that shabby either, but the third has the object of my (Sherlock-directed) admiration in it: Mycroft. So stay tuned for more joy!**_

_**/-/**_

_Transgression #2: It is strictly forbidden for anybody to exalt themselves higher than Sherlock in Mrs. Hudson's eyes._

"It was nothing, really."

"Oh nonsense, deary! My back isn't what it used to be, not to mention my balance. Can you imagine me trying to stay on the stool while getting those down?"

Mrs. Hudson and John made their way side-by-side to 221B's kitchen, Mrs. Hudson carrying several jars of an orange sort of filling in them. Their presence did little to rouse Sherlock, who was decidingly staring at where there used to be bullet holes in the wall, most likely planning to add a few more to the collection.

"Sherlock! Mrs. Hudson's got something for us!" John called across the flat to his mate, but elicited no response. With a sigh, he turned back to his landlady. "He's a bit bored lately. No good cases going on, you know."

"Oh, it's no problem to me, dear. He need to learn that not _every _day can be Christmas!"

Unbeknownst to the two in the kitchen, Sherlock's ears perked up a bit as the slur directed at him.

"I'm just glad that _I _could help you get the canning supplies down." John continued, oblivious to the rising interest his flatmate was taking in the conversation. "Sherlock's not very reliable for any sort of domestic work."

The matron just chuckled, patting the gifts she gave John. "Just enjoy the marmalade, dear. A gift for helping me out, you know? Just don't expect it to be a regular thing, because I'm you landlady-"

"Not my housekeeper!" John chimed in with her, knowing her saying far too well. "Don't worry ma'm. I'll make sure Sherlock eats some of it. He's like a child sometimes- he'll go without eating for _days _if I don't force him to."

"Oh my!" Mrs. Hudson looked shocked at Sherlock's figure, which was still pretending to take no interest in the two's antics. "At least he has you then, someone a little more _typical _to take care of him."

"I'm just good in enlisting other people's help." John modestly admitted. Mrs. Hudson gave a short laugh then turned to the door, prepared to leave. "I'm going to be running to the shops in an hour or so. Do either of you need me to pick up anything for you?"

"No, I think we're fine." John declined. "Sherlock?"

Only with the call directed to him did the detective pretend to hear his flatmate. "No, I'm good. Anything that I need I can make happen by myself."

His strange message was simply taken as typical Sherlock, and the landlady headed out to her own errands, John bidding her a good day. All was quiet in the flat until Sherlock voiced something on his mind.

"She appears to favor you."

John snorted. "That seems like a pretty obvious observation. You been hanging around Anderson too much?"

"She appears to favor you over me."

This caused John to think twice before answering. "I don't know. I think anyone who knows you favors someone…_more normal _over you at some point or another."

"So you agree she favors you?"

"I don't know how to answer that."

"It's a good thing _I _do."

No longer passive, Sherlock cast a wistful gaze at John before bolting up and striding out of the room. The doctor followed his path in slight confusion.

"Okay…I'll just take a nap or something…" John didn't actually know if he'd follow through on this, but with all the running around he'd done in the past few days with Sherlock, trailing smugglers and drug lords, he wouldn't be surprised if he slipped off.

Stumbling over to the couch Sherlock normally claimed as his own, John slowly lowered himself down into the cushions. Within minutes his resolve had melted and he drifted off into sleep.

/-/

John's awakening from his nap was far from the peaceful manner he had fallen into it with.

"_That's my couch!"_

A harsh yell, tainted with possessiveness and rage shook John awake. Jolting up, the first thing the doctor saw was his flatmate, glaring down with a look John had only seen him give Anderson before.

"Good morning to you too…" he grumbled. Sherlock continued to glower back.

"_Out_ of my couch."

"Fine…fine…" John sighed succession, then slowly clambered out of the chair. "Where've you been?"

"Busy." Was all Sherlock answered with, quickly repossessing his seat. "Doesn't mean you can sit in _my_ couch though."

John's mouth snapped open, ready to react with some sharp retort, when a sudden noise startled him out of his reply.

"John!" A shrill voice yelled from the flat below theirs, interrupting the men's quibbling. John glanced worriedly at Sherlock.

"Was that Mrs. Hudson?"

Before Sherlock had time to respond, John's question was answered, as his landlady came bustling up the steps to their den, carrying a large bundle of fabric. She stopped in a huff when she reached the men, turning to John over the detective.

"I suppose you think you're clever! Thought the marmalade gave you permission for this!" With a purposeful grunt, she let the bundle drop to the floor. In curiosity, John cautiously picked one of the items up. It was large and itchy, but the moment he had it in his arms, he knew what the pile was made of.

"My jumpers!"

"Exactly!" Mrs. Hudson pointedly agreed. "Found them in my laundry basket just now. I suppose you thought I'd pop them in the wash for you then run them back up, all clean, hmn?"

"No! I-" John tried to talk, but was spoken over by the furious woman.

"Well just remember, John!" she scolded, "I am your _landlady_, not your _housekeeper_!"

"But I-"

"Enlisting other people's help, indeed!" Mrs. Hudson stormed out of the flat, down to her own. John bewilderingly held up his jumpers, some clean, some dirty, some he hadn't seen in weeks.

"Sherlock?" he turned to the detective standing next to him. "Do you have any idea how Mrs. Hudson got all of these in her flat?"

"Perhaps, John." Sherlock cast him a knowing glance. "But then again, I have ideas for many things. Right now, the condition of your jumpers have led me to twelve possible ways in which they had gotten into Mrs. Hudson's laundry."

Not in the mood for such a cryptic answer, John gave a sigh of frustration. Mrs. Hudson wouldn't be giving _him _more marmalade anytime soon.

Sherlock just smiled.

_Revenge: They shall be brought down again._

_/-/_

**Coming soon… knife pointing, unicorns, and awkward moments! No Norway, though…**


	3. Transgression no 3

_**Heads-up. The next few transgressions may come slowly. One of my friends is going to be away in the Home Guard, so I'm trying to spend more time with them before they go to basic training. I'll do my best, though!**_

_**/-/**_

_Transgression #3: It is strictly forbidden for anybody to be civil to Mycroft. Ever._

Upon walking into his flat, John noticed three things in rapid succession.

Mycroft's umbrella was leaning against the door frame.

Mycroft was in the kitchen, apparently reasoning with Sherlock.

Sherlock was clutching a butcher's knife, pointing it directly at Mycroft.

At the approximate time John registered the latter of the points, Sherlock had duly noted his presence.

"John, at this point I would advise you not to act rashly." Sherlock spoke calmly, never letting his blade or eyes waver from his brother. "For now you need only trust in the fact that I know what I'm doing, and that Mycroft is a very bad man who deserves whatever comes to him."

Against the counter, Mycroft shook his head, either in recognition of the folly of his brother, or in an attempt to cover his nerves.

"Brother, have you perhaps considered the fact that you're carrying our sibling rivalry a little _too_ far?"

Sherlock frowned. "Who cares? Mummy isn't here to complain."

Seeing a possible stalemate in the situation, John seized his chance to intervene.

"Even though 'Mummy' isn't here, I'm sure we can all assume she isn't favorable on the whole idea of siblings slaughtering each other." Now-" His voice rose a notch, seeing Sherlock about to protest. "I'm not going to listen to you both try and convince me _whose _fault it is, _who _started it, or _who _threw the first death threat." There was a pause, pointed at Sherlock. "All I'm going to do is remain a third party. A completely neutral third party who does _not _want to have any dead bodies contaminating my kitchen."

"Too late." Sherlock muttered under his breath, spared a reproach from John by a comment from Mycroft.

"I can understand where you're coming from, John. In fact, I'd be more than happy to oblige this wish of yours and leave completely."

"Please do." Sherlock dryly agreed. This drew forth a scowl from Mycroft as he detached himself from the doorway, adjusting any wrinkles from his jacket. As Mycroft lifted his hand in salutation to his brother, John could hardly believe what he saw. The older Holmes hands were _trembling_. A quick glance to Sherlock let the doctor know he hadn't observed anything; he was in too much fury at his brother to pick up small factors like that.

Seeing Mycroft's nerves, combined with his usual manners, John moved to help, opening the front door for the man as he came over, giving a slight nod.

"Don't forget your umbrella." He pointed to the opposite side of the door where, sure enough it stood, waiting to be claimed. A hasty nod from Mycroft, a grab at the umbrella, and he was out the door.

"Have a good day!" John called after him, without thinking. A moment's pause at what he had said, then a shrug of indifference. Shutting the door, John turned back to the kitchen, only to be startled by an enraged Sherlock directly behind him.

Perhaps the indifference came a second too soon.

"_What _did you just say?" His voice was dangerously calm, daring John to answer. The doctor took the challenge.

"I was just being _civil!_ God, Sherlock! Maybe you should try it sometime!"

Apparently that was the wrong answer.

"You'll regret this." Sherlock narrowed his eyes. His voice was shielded, John unable to tell whether he spoke a threat, or an actual fact.

"Perhaps I will." He finally recognized. "But in the meantime, you'll probably regret it if you don't get back to Mycroft. He only comes to you for the important things, and I'm sure you'll feel a bit stupid if your childishness starts the next world war."

Sherlock nodded, unreadable as ever, though one could see calculations running behind his eyes. "I do believe you're right."

John's eyes opened wide. "Real- I mean, I know I am."

"Yes. In fact…" Sherlock stepped back, retreating to the kitchen. "I'll ring him right away, see if I can't get him back here before the day's out."

"Good idea."

"Quite. Maybe he'll bring another gift."

"Gift?"

"Yes. In an effort to smooth relations over, he brought a little something for me. Over on the counter."

"Hmm." John agreed, following Sherlock. "The stuff in the fancy glasses?"

"Yes." Sherlock moved past, attention elsewhere.

"Wine?" John picked up a glass, lifting it to his lips. Sherlock jolted his head up.

"No!"

Lunging at his flatmate, he knocked the glass out of John's hand. The liquid splashed across John's chest, glass crashing and shattering on the tile. The two men slowly turned to each other. Sherlock spoke first.

"It's a nitrogen-based acid."

Much too grateful for his life to ask what acid was doing in a wine glass, John just looked down at himself.

"It's all over me."

Sherlock followed the other's eyes down. "Well for God's sake, go wash it off, then." He instructed John as if the idea wouldn't have occurred otherwise.

"In the shower?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes, sarcasm taking over. "_No_. With Mrs. Hudson giving you a sponge bath."

John glanced up. "I might be a bit."

In a haste Sherlock had never seen from the doctor (except on crime chases), John had rushed upstairs, undressed with an unnatural haste, grabbed new clothes with the fervor of a madman, and had locked himself into the bathroom.

"Where's a scrub brush when you need one…" The lack of tools made little difference to John in the long run, as he compromised by slipping into an old routine of his. Trying to reduce the unpleasant thoughts of acid burning into his skin, he began to hum a song; an old drinking song he and his mates would belt out during their university days whenever they got drunk. He barely made it past the first verse.

"Would you be quiet? I'm trying to text Mycroft!"

In response, John only sang louder. Through his lyrics, he could have sworn he heard the soft _click_ of the bathroom door opening, but he shook the thought out of his mind as fast as he shook product out of his hair. In addition to all his talents, he doubted Sherlock had the skills _or_ the desire to break into the room as John was showering.

By the time he was done, John was sure he had taken up all this _and _Mrs. Hudson's hot water, washed his torso dozens of times more than necessary, and has spent close to an hour in the process.

Turing off the water, John flung open the shower curtain. He reached across to his clothes hanging from the door-

And instead came in contact with something unnervingly soft and plushy.

"What-" John's exclamation was cut short as he realized what was hanging in lieu of his clothes. "Sherlock!"

Dripping wet, he threw the bathroom door open (not surprised to find it unlocked), and stormed down the stairs. He left behind a puddle trail, but his rage blinded him to anything but his goal of reproaching his flatmate. "Sherlock, what the hell-"

Rounding the corner into the den, he was cut short by a disastrous sight. His irritation vanished completely, only to be replaced by flooding humiliation as Sherlock and Mycroft stared at him.

"I took your advice and got Mycroft over here as soon as I could-" Sherlock spoke first in his normal bland manner, contrasting completely with his gaping brother. "-but I had no idea you'd decide to go _streaking_ in honor of our guest."

John just stood, humiliated beyond rationality. He had the vague thought that his face had turned a deathly pale, rather than a mortified red, and somewhere in the back of his mind he had the realization that he still held the plush object from the bathroom in his hand. The moment he remembered that bit of information, his hand shot down to between his legs, the object still there.

It wasn't a good move. The brothers' eyes followed his hand down, finally noticing what was delicately covering John's parts.

"A unicorn?" Mycroft managed to out with distaste. Sherlock nodded an equal dislike.

"Quite right, John. I thought you had better taste than that. Look at that _thing_. It's…_pink_."

John scowled and looked down at that stuffed animal he had found in place of his clothes. "The color's hardly the point, wouldn't you think?"

"Yes…" Mycroft began to back towards the door, shaking more than when Sherlock had a knife at him. "I'd say the color is the _least_ disturbing feature I see here."

Sherlock glanced to his brother, as if surprised at the sudden shift into nerves. "What are you doing?"

"I may have to-" still looking at John, Mycroft failed to see the corner of the coat rack, bumping into it before he oriented himself again. "I think it's best if I go and leave you two be for a bit."

If anyone other than John saw Sherlock's face then, they would have believed it to be actual regret.

"But _brother dear,_ I thought we had that _very_ important issue to discuss-"

"It can wait!" Mycroft grabbed the door handle and threw the entry open with a crashing force. "I'm going now!"

In seconds both the older Holmes and his umbrella were whisked out of sight, only the slight thudding of shoes going down the steps signaling their departure. John and Sherlock stood in degrees of shock; John's of humiliation, Sherlock's of a discreet self-laudment. Only when John begin to turn to upstairs, to finally grab a towel and dry off, did Sherlock make a content comment.

"I don't think _he'll _be coming around again."

_Revenge: Mycroft shall be given reason as to never want to interact with said transgressor again._

**/-/**

**I was tempted to put in the all-purpose ending here: **

"**And then the Soviet tanks rolled in and slaughtered everybody. The end."**

**I've also no idea if Mycroft would be bothered by random nudity, but if it's beneficial to the plot…**


	4. Transgression no 4

_Transgression #4: No one shall rope Sherlock into doing anything the great detective doesn't want to do._

It had been a joint transgression on both John _and_ Lestrade's behalf's. However, because John was so much easier to reap revenge upon, the blunt whole of the vengeance would be directed toward him.

"It wasn't _that_ bad, Sherlock!"

Silly John. Silly, stupid, poor John. Didn't he know Sherlock didn't take well to people minimizing his reactions.

"I mean, really! You were even having _fun_ on the case until you found out it was a simple kidnapping!"

Wrong thing to say. Sherlock glared at John, eyes narrowed into slits. Lestrade stood in the corner of his office, watching the two flatmates argue things out. He just hoped if he kept quiet long enough Sherlock would forget he played a role in stringing the detective along as well.

"Yes John, but to take a common phrase, it's the thought that counts. You, my dear doctor, have deceived me."

"Well, if _I _were to take a common phrase, I'd say that 'it's a fair cop'."

"What?"

"Never mind. It's just…you need to relax Sherlock. You can't always go moping about whenever things are 'dull' or 'mundane'. It's a common courtesy the rest of us have to follow. You should too."

"I don't follow the rules of 'common' people…" Sherlock could be heard to mutter, but he settled down nonetheless. John followed his example, already moving things in the kitchen about.

"Thank you. You know, you'll accomplish a lot more if you just learn what it feels like to put yourself in someone else's shoes."

Though John believed himself to be imparting wisdom, he was inspiring so much more into Sherlock, whose head perked up hearing the advice.

"Do you think _you_ would benefit from such an exercise as well, doctor?"

John paused, kettle in hand. When Sherlock poised seemingly hypothetical questions, he had learned that they were anything but.

"I believe that it's something that everyone could benefit from at one point or another, yes." He finally answered, choosing his words carefully.

"Would you do me a favor then, John?" Sherlock spoke with sudden deliberation. "I need you to get my mobile for me, if you would."

John began to set the kettle down, but stopped. Sherlock's civility was discerning. Even so, he did what the detective asked, fetching the mobile from the kitchen table. Upon giving it to Sherlock, he was met with an uncustomary "thank you".

"Are you…okay?" The doctor asked, quite unaccustomed to hearing anything kind come out of Sherlock's mouth. The detective only glanced up, sarcastic smile in place.

"Of course, John. Right now I'm just taking your advice and putting myself in someone else's shoes. It just so happens that the shoes I'm putting myself in are the shoes of someone who is hopelessly dependant on other people, and dull enough to follow the social rules of society."

John merely rolled his eyes as he left, muttering something about "uncalled for sarcasm". He didn't remain to see Sherlock begin flipping through his pictures, stopping only when one caught his eye. Upon seeing this particular scene, Sherlock leapt up, offering a quick 'going now' before lurching out of the flat. Behind him, on the couch, remained his phone. On it was a normal sight, an intersection plastered with flyers. No one who looked at the picture could tell that he was focusing on one flyer in particular, or that it would horrendously affect John.

Sherlock returned to the flat quickly, paper in hand, though not quickly enough for an exasperated John.

"I called for you five minutes ago! Dinner's ready."

Sherlock scowled, stuffing the paper in his pocket. "Didn't notice I was out then."

"Now _you_ know how that feels." John jabbed, though there was not menace in his voice. The two sat to eat, though, like always, it was John who ate, and Sherlock who stared blankly at the food before texting on his phone. Wait-_a _phone.

"Is that my mobile?" John studied the cell in Sherlock's hand before glaring up at his flatmate. "It is! Why do you have my phone?"

"Following your advice." Sherlock responded, before setting down the mobile. "Expect to get a call soon." And then he did something John had never seen him do willingly. He picked up a fork and began to eat.

In shock, John refrained from any further questioning, taking the semi-miracle as it came. He'd deal with any mysteriousness later.

It wasn't until dinner was well-finished and the two men were lounging around the flat that John recalled Sherlock's earlier comment. His reminder came in the form of his phone's blaring ringtone.

"One moment…" John dug in his pocket, catching his mobile before the call was missed. Flipping it open, he cleared his throat before answering. "Hello?"

"Hello, love?" The voice was distinctly male, but it was spoken in a high falsetto.

"Erm, yes. Who's calling?"

"Oh, it's me, dear. Is this John speaking?"

"Uh…" before John could answer, the person on the line pressed on, falsetto accenting every word.

"It's me, Ginger. You texted earlier? You sound quite a bit different than I expected, but that's sometimes the case, isn't it?" They spoke quickly, excitement filling in every sound they made. "I was just so _tickled_ to hear you wanted to be the guest speaker at our next 'Transgender in London' rally!"

"What are you-" John broke off, the strangeness of what had just been said sinking in quickly. "No! I don't know how you got- I'm not-!"

On the other side of the room, Sherlock discretely tiptoes over to the recycle bin. Pulling a paper out of his pocket, he crumpled it up and dropped it in. Looking down at it, one could almost see the text announcing a "celebration of breakdowns of gender cages".

John never seemed to know when to stop.

_Revenge: They shall be roped into an arrangement of their own._

_**/-/**_

**I **_**do**_** love my references. Shout outs to whoever guesses where I referenced 'a 'snaky' T.V. programme' in this chapter!**


	5. Transgression no 5

_Transgression #5: No one shall insult, abuse, or otherwise demean Sherlock's violin playing abilities._

It was four in the morning for 221B Baker Street, and yet no one slept. This could have been the case for multiple reasons. It might have been because the men living there had just completed a rather pressing case revolving around a somewhat nervous chiropractor and a nearly-sonic screwdriver. It might have been because John had sworn he would get at least _some_ sleep that night, and both men knew when John swore something, it rarely happened. It might have been because the thrill of solving a case had excited Sherlock something terribly.

_SCREEECHHH! _

Then again, it might have been something to do with Sherlock's continuous violin 'playing' since midnight.

Upstairs, John pulled a third jumper over his head. Even with the pillow, the blanket, and the three spare jumpers lying next to his bed, he couldn't cover up the horrible grating noise Sherlock was making.

At the current moment, the doctor was thinking fondly to Sherlock's initial mention of 'I don't talk for days on end. Would that bother you?" Sulking silence would have been better than the noise now.

"SHERLOCK!" John finally uncovered his head, trying to yell above the violin. His call went unheard, though, as the repertoire of musical notes continued on. With another growl, John threw the covers back.

Downstairs, Sherlock played on, caught up in rhapsody of the music. During a particularly long stretch, though, the sound of something _quite_ unlike a resonating string could be heard over his note. It was the loud thud of footsteps on the stairs.

Without a pause, Sherlock went into the next stretch of notes. It seemed like he's be having an audience soon. He just hoped there weren't hecklers. He _hated _hecklers. Out of the corner of his sight John came around the corner, a particularly vicious look on his face.

"Do you have any idea how horrible that sounds?" John growled at Sherlock. The detective only gave him a bland look in response.

"I do not, my dear doctor. To my ears, the vibrations sound particularly soothing, but that may just be my racing mind. To _your_ mind, however, having not gone through REM cycles for the last 37 hours, I can suppose it sounds particularly disturbing."

"_Disturbing_? Sherlock, disturbing doesn't cover it. It's atrocious. It's appalling. It's absolutely dreadful!"

"You don't like it."

The doctor felt his hands ball into fists, but fought down the urge to swing at his flatmate. _ He's not worth it John. Just settle this so you can get to bed._ "I swear Sherlock, if you don't stop that racket I'll make sure you can't play that out of fear I'll get Moriarty to make you stop."

Sherlock nodded, taking in John's seriousness. "I'll just retreat to my room, then." With a curt nod to John, he lifted the violin and tromped up the stairs.

John continued to shake in weariness, even after Sherlock had been minutes gone. It couldn't have been that easy. Nothing was ever easy with Sherlock (except for ordering Thai. That was different, though. Sherlock was bound to eat whatever John ordered, between complaints of dullness). As nothing followed Sherlock's simple retreat though, the doctor began to feel relief set in. For once it seemed Sherlock would finally concede without a fight.

_SCREEECHHH! _

Or perhaps not.

Coming from Sherlock's room was a horrid racket, even worse than the noise he had made earlier. Sleep deprivation finally took its toll on John. His head snapped up, and before he knew what he was doing he was bounding up the stairs, standing before Sherlock's door, pounding on it as if to break it down.

"You bleeding bastard! Open this door immediately! Stop that! Do you _want_ me to drop dead of lack of sleep?"

For a split second the 'music' stopped.

"That's not a medical possibility yet, doctor."

The noise started up again.

Sherlock hadn't stopped playing the violin until seven in the morning, much to John's irritation. It was only minutes after he finally drifted off that he was woken by his phone ringing.

_We need you two. Sherlock's not answering his mobile, he's still put out at me. Can you make it in five? -Lestrade_

With a groan, John sat up, sheets still tangled around his feet. "Sherlock! We need to go!"

"My phone has been in my pocket, John. You don't have to announce it like I don't know." Sherlock poked his head around the door frame.

"Then why didn't you answer?"

"I thought it'd be best to have someone else wake you."

Several unpleasant responses ran through John's head, but he forced all of them down his throat. It was only Monday.

On Monday night, John had bid Sherlock good night, and had just stripped down to his boxers before the sound of dischord came harshy wafting up from the vents. No amount of yelling at Sherlock to 'stuff it' could make him stop. The whole of the night was spent in misery. The next day, John fell asleep at the clinic again.

On Tuesday night, John thought he was being clever in stealing pillows and blankets from Sherlock's (never used) bed and using them to insulate his door and pile over his head. Sherlock responded by adding caterwauling lyrics to his performance. It was worse than just the violin, and John swore to stick to his own pillows from then on. The next day, in a tired daze, he leaned against Anderson to try and sleep, thinking he was Sherlock. His flatmate said he deserved falling over when Anderson jumped away in fright.

On Wednesday night, the stringed menace struck again after John apologized for his harsh words. If John wasn't mistaken from his delirium, he would have said Sherlock was playing the Darth Vader march tune at one point. The next day, John texted Mycroft to try and get Sherlock to stop, but only succeeded in sending an unintelligible string of letters. This further alerted Sherlock to John's grudge after Mycroft immediately called his younger brother, demanding to know why John was trying to drunk dial him.

On Thursday night, John feared he would go the whole week sleepless. However, something strange happened that night.

There was no violin.

Lying content in his bed, John waited for sleep to come. After several hours, with dread in his heart, he realized he simply could not. The whole of the night, he lay awake, waiting in anticipation for Sherlock to begin playing, shocking him fully awake. It never came. The next day, Sherlock kept sending him knowing grins. John, in his confusion, fought to tell if the grins were related to further vengeance, forgiveness, or something else entirely.

On Friday night, John arrived at the flat alone. Sherlock was lagging behind at the station, talking to Lestrade about heaven _knows _what. Heart racing, John threw on his pajamas and made quick work of washing up. Perhaps if his flatmate saw him asleep when he got home, he'd have pity on him and let him stay asleep.

The creak of the front door suggested otherwise.

Nothing else he could do, John settled down into bed, ready for another night of sleeplessness. To his surprise though, after the telltale thud of a violin lifted from the floor, a quiet melody began to play.

It was hardly beautiful, just the same strident noise Sherlock had been making the past week, but it was softer, more soothing. Compared to the loud grating of previous nights or the utter silence of the night before, it was true music to John's ears. In a few minutes his eyes were closed, mind at ease in rest.

Downstairs, Sherlock heard the rustling above slow, then stop altogether. Still, he kept playing. A week of sleep deprivation could do wonders for a person's psyche. If they weren't used to it, that is. Resting back on the arm of the couch, he shifted into a piece by Debussy, the first actual song he had played in days. John wouldn't hear it in his slumber.

There was no need for the doctor to know his actual skills. Not until he had begun to appreciate his mood music first.

_Revenge: They shall be forced to grow accustomed to its sound._

_**/-/**_

**Joy of joys! I have finally got around to buying an actual John-style jumper. No easy feat when you're trying to get the full effect, including the slight bagginess. I'm standing in the 'old man' department, and a salesman comes over and says "That's too big. You'll need something smaller to fit you." I respond with no, I'm looking for something slightly bigger than me. He shoots me a disgusted look and sneers, "Well, if you're shopping for your **_**boyfriend**_**, he probably won't appreciate the jab at his fashion sense."**

**His rudeness is nothing. I have a John-Jumper, and nothing can ruin that.**


	6. Transgression no 6

**Joy to the world! I finished this one up. Joy of joys, and all that jazz. Thank you to all the wonderful readers who take the time to add this as a favorite, and an especially generous thanks to those who've reviewed!**

**/-/**

_Transgression #6: Sherlock shall never be pressured to clean up after his boredom fits._

"Sherlock, there's been something I've been meaning to talk to you about." John tried to capture his flatmate's attention over two vials of what he hoped were _not _acid. "It's about the flat."

"If it's not that you've found one of Mycroft's bugs, it can wait until later." Sherlock barely spared John a glance over the lab supplies in the kitchen.

"No, it can't." John stuck his hand between Sherlock and the basing instrument he just set down. Sherlock simply looked up at him.

"John, get your hand off of my pipet."

"Your what?"

"Exactly. Now just wait until I finish this experiment."

"No I won't!"

The utter refusal in John's voice left Sherlock still in shock. Slowly, he straightened into a full stand. In the back of John's mind, he registered the fact that Sherlock was quite taller than him. Slightly intimidating as well.

"What in the world could be so important, doctor?"

"The golden rule."

Sherlock thought for a moment. "The remains of the body are the most important evidence of all?"

"No, Sherlock. Clean up one activity before moving onto the next."

Sherlock gave John a bland look. "I think you have a different golden rule than the rest this dull world."

"I'm a doctor," John began to explain, but recognized Sherlock trying to redirect his focus. "Can you just take a moment to look at the flat?"

Hoping John would move on to a less annoying task, Sherlock did so, seeing nothing in particular. "Nothing out the ordinary, except for a vase of flowers Sarah gave you, you set on the end table, then hid away before I got home."

"How did you- never mind." John shook his head. "At least you caught the point."

"Point?"

"Sherlock, we've been through hell's fire and high waters…almost literally." He looked at the wall in increasing distaste. "And yet, even after letting me know how much you think I'm 'okay' and 'good,' you can't find it in yourself to clean up your mess?"

John spoke about the wall, still bearing the remains of yellow spray paint, and the noticeable bullet holes littering the vandalism.

"Hmmn..." Sherlock appraised the mess. "I've better things to do." Just as disinterested, he returned to his work.

"You're acting like a child!" John protested, but couldn't elicit any further responses from Sherlock For the next three hours, until Inspector Lestrade texted, Sherlock continued on his obscure experiment, never sparing another thought to the mess.

Although, if John dared to suspect Sherlock, he'd say the genius had finished his experiment long ago.

When the two got back later that night, it was too late to discuss the wall vandalism further. The two simply retreated to their bedrooms for the night.

And for a few minutes before he lay to work out some inconclusive details, Sherlock even entertained the possibility John would let the mess slide.

/-/

The next morning, Sherlock, for once, woke up. It was all very well, he supposed. It had been nearly a week since he had slept, anyway.

With a sluggishness only appearing from those rare nights he spent sleeping, Sherlock stumbled to the den, an uncharacteristic yawn slipping from his mouth. As he crossed to grab John's laptop, something green caught his eye.

On the doorframe to the kitchen was a post-it note, John's messy scrawl on it.

Curiosity took over, and Sherlock veered to it, reading it as he got closer.

_-Sherlock,_

_Went over to Sarah's. I think it'll be extra-long to get back. I have a feeling Mycroft's going to kidnap me today. Good for you for sleeping, anyway. How about you start cleaning up while I'm gone? I'll help a bit when I get back, if Mycroft doesn't keep me for too long._

_-John_

Sherlock recoiled as if burned. A new briskness in his walk, he turned and went straight out the front door, out in the street, and out to walk about London.

Never mind the looks given by those strange, _dull,_ people as he wandered about in his dressing gown.

/-/

By the time Sherlock returned, Jon was back as well, cooking up some biscuits, by the smell of it.

"Mess is still here." He called out by way of greeting. "Didn't you see my note?"

"Note? I'm afraid not." Sherlock waltzed into the kitchen, grabbing a knife as he passed the drying rack. "I've been out."

"So've I," John argued, "but I'm not letting you off the hook. I swear, I'm not going to say it again. You're going to clean the wall."

"If I remember." Sherlock mildly agreed, then walked out. "But if you're really a man of your word, you can't verbally remind me from now on!"

"A puzzle..." John muttered. After a moment of thought, he set down the tray he had and grabbed a pen and stack of post-its. Determined, he began to write. He'd have the flat filled with reminders in no time.

/-/

When Sherlock came into the kitchen later, it didn't take too long for John to notice something strange was going on.

"Why are your eyes closed?"

"Experiment. I'm seeing what it's like to be blind."

In amusement, John watched as his flatmate made it all the way to the counter, opened a nicotine patch, put it on, and threw the wrapper away. It took resolve to keep his eyes closed the whole time. Especially when he banged his knee on a chair.

"This is getting ridiculous!" John called out to Sherlock as the detective exited.

"Hardly!" Came the answer, Sherlock disappearing up the stairs. "A man's pride depends on this!"

/-/

John owed the mad detective credit; that much was certain. Sherlock had kept up the blind act for a whole week. In fact, it was the next Saturday morning, seven days to the hour, that his persistence paid off.

"Morning, John." It might have been imagination, but Sherlock always sounded more cheerful after his weekly night's nap.

"Morning, sunshine." John's voice came from the side of the room. There, curled up in his chair, was the doctor, half asleep. With a deep yawn, he continued his mumblings. "I've got something for you."

"A surprise?"

"Look behind you."

Sherlock turned around. Behind him was a dull sight. It was a wall. A plain, normal, unmarred wall.

"Oh John..." Sherlock gazed on. "_Thank you_".

The wall, now the same as the other three, was the one that had been spray pained, shot at, then neglected. John had restored it to its previous condition.

However, contrasting to what he thought his appreciation would bring, Sherlock heard no response. Looking back to the chair, he saw John, eyes closed, drifted off in sleep.

With a gentle grin, Sherlock stepped over to John. With a shrug, his bathrobe slipped off his shoulders. Bringing it around, Sherlock laid it over his sleeping flatmate, taking care to tuck it under his chin.

Satisfied, Sherlock moved away, off to whatever strange attraction had captured his attention.

Even though John had been charged the punishment, it didn't mean he couldn't receive any forgiveness in the end.

_Revenge: The mess shall remain until someone else becomes domestic and decides to fix it._

**/-/**

**I can't believe my luck. My John-Jumper from Chap. 5? It got ruined in the wash. So I had to go back to the store and buy another one. Same store. Same department. **_Same salesman_. **This time, when he gave me a look and asked if this one was for my 'boyfriend,' I gave him a grin and said yes. I wasn't sure whether to be amused or insulted by his glare.**


	7. Transgression no 7

_Transgression #7: Aside from a few privileged persons, it is dangerous for anyone to know of Sherlock's tendency to giggle as he leaves crime scenes._

"John."

Nothing.

"John!"

Still no response.

"JOHN!"

"What?"

From his chair, John lifted his head over to Sherlock on the couch.

"You didn't answer."

"I grunted."

Sherlock let out a sigh, not used to having to face the rudeness he so often gave others. "You _must_ learn to be more eloquent. Can I use your laptop?"

"It's right there on the floor!"

"It's out of my reach." As if to illustrate his point, Sherlock stretched out his patch-covered arm. The tips of his fingers were mere centemetres away from the laptop screen.

"And you want _me_ to get that for you?"

"That would be favorable."

There were some things that were better off not argued with. There were also things that were worth fighting for tooth and nail.

This, unfortunately, was one of the former times.

"Here you go." John handed his laptop over, having lifted his bum from the seat and stretched over to Sherlock's side.

Sherlock began tapping on the keys almost immediately. "I'm using your e-mail."

"That's not much of a way to ask permission."

"Permission or not, there's little in the way of stopping me." Sherlock continued to open the e-mail programme. "Even though you've changed your passwords four times since I last logged on."

"How do you-"

The password's still predictable, though. Don't you find it embarrassing to depict Mycroft in that way?"

"That's meant to be private!"

"Not to me, it isn't. I'm done with the e-mail."

"Give it to me, then. I need to send something to Harry."

"I thought you hated." Sherlock handed the computer over, skepticism thick in his voice.

"No, only _you_ truly see your sibling as an arch-enemy. _Normal_ people are content to keep it at sibling rivalry, with a few long-term grudges."

"So you _don't_ hate her?"

"Only her drinking habits. Other than that, I think well enough to send updates." By then, John was nearly through with his post, even through his slow typing skills.

"Doesn't she read your god-awful blog?"

John shrugged. "Yeah, but she deserves something a little more personal." With a few final keystrokes, John sent his message. Giving his flatmate a sharp look, he made a pointed effort to turn back and work a minute more.

"Changing it _again_? When will you learn?"

Against his better judgment, John smirked. Finishing up for good, he shut up his laptop, setting it back on the floor. "I have clinic hours today, so I'd better get going."

"You can always quit!" Sherlock suggested as John got ready to go. This went without a response, only a quick wave as the doctor headed out the door.

The flat was entirely quiet then. The perfect atmosphere to conduct ideas. This included deductions pertinent to Sherlock's cases.

"John! Your laptop again! The lawn decoration wasn't there before!"

Seconds passed before Sherlock realized his mistake. Grimace plastered on his face, he stretched out his arm to the floor again.

This time he made contact.

Grasping the thick top, Sherlock pulled the computer up into his lap. Within moments he had it booted up, email open, and entering passwords.

"I knew you'd go for the _extremely _obvious eventually…" Sherlock typed in John's latest code: 'youllneverguessthisSherlockHA!' enabling him to send an updated email to his client.

Just about to shut the laptop, Sherlock froze, halfway through the motion. He narrowed his eyes, re-opening the computer to glance at something again.

Sherlock was above petty snooping. That was for fools like Mycroft.

But this wasn't snooping. This was showing a healthy level of interest in his flatmate's life.

Opening the 'sent email' file, he gave the latest message a look-through, then a second run-over. Subsequent times reading the email in front of him did nothing to ease his boiling blood. John's words to his sister lay clear before him, pixels unfailingly true.

"…you really wouldn't believe it Harriet, but the man, for all his genius, _giggles_ as we leave crime scenes."

It was a mixture of insult and compliment, but one thing in particular caught Sherlock's attention. John had mentioned the giggling. He had _emailed_ Harry about the giggling-something Sherlock considered _private_!

This, in Sherlock's ever-rational mind, was unacceptable. Bringing the cruiser over to 'file,' he clicked on 'controls.' This time a new password box popped up. Few people knew about this email function for certain servers. Even fewer people had any idea how computer-savvy Sherlock was. It was a talent acquired at a young age. How else was a bored seven-year-old supposed to fill his time?

Entering the 'one-size-fits-all' code, there popped up one final message: 'disable electronic mail capabilities?' Sherlock hit yes.

His task wasn't over yet. A quick visit to the computer's hard drive ensured it would reject any email programs it encountered.

Turning off the computer when done, Sherlock returned it to its place on the floor. Thank God he preferred texting.

/-/

This revenge was taking a disappointingly long time to come into effect. John really only needed to go on his computer after a case was completed, and Lestrade seemed determined to try and solve a case without his favorite consulting detective. Finally, Sherlock decided to do some prompting of his own.

"John, Mycroft was hinting earlier that he had gotten hold of your email. Do you think he may have tried to harass you in response to your disrespectful password?"

The laptop was out and fired up in minutes.

"I don't see how he thinks that would be necessary." John had begun, "I mean, he can text…what the…?" A confused look came over John's face. "It's not letting me on…" A few more minutes went by as the doctor messed around. "It's not working!"

As Sherlock predicted, John succinctly went to gmail, yahoo, then hotmail, all to no avail. "Something's wrong here!"

That, Sherlock believed as he stood to stretch, was an amusingly large understatement. John would be in for a load of frustration.

/-/

John had more persistence than his flatmate would have given him credit for. Four hours of fiddling around later, less than a double curse words had been yelled. Through to be fair, Sherlock hadn't included the seven words he was sure John or some other soldier had made up in Afghanistan.

"I can't get it!" John seemed fit to throw his laptop across the room, but settled with doing the same with a pillow.

"Oh. That's unfortunate." Sherlock hadn't put much thought into it, but he supposed he would have been more convincing if he'd actually put some sympathy into his words.

"I swear, it's like it's been tampered with!"

This caught a little too close to the truth Sherlock, and he worked to draw the other's attention away.

"You just have the bad luck of having rows with every bit of technology you cross." He grabbed John's shoulders, rousing him up. "Let's go for a walk. Get your ridiculous temper eased up."

Ridiculous temper or not, John nodded, glad to take a break from the computer. In his gratefulness to Sherlock for moving him out of his rut, he never suspected the satisfaction triumphed in Sherlock's head

_Revenge: The mode of communication used to transfer this information shall be severed._

**/-/**

**If you choose to review (and I hope you do!), add your idea of what John's password was, and I'll put the best few at the intro to the next chapter!**


	8. Transgression no 8

**Best passwords go to: Skyfullofstars, for her idea of "****Sheer Luck Holmes." Also, though it was not a password, my applause to Countrygrl for reminding me of the horrors that would have ensued if John had used his tongue to transfer the information (the mode of communication shall be severed).**

**So, to both my shout-outs and the rest of the readers, enjoy!**

**/-/**

_Transgression #8: It is a sin unto itself to suggest Sherlock is to fetch the milk when it runs out._

"We're out _again_?" John stared in disbelief at the refrigerator interior. "How can we go through milk so quickly? It's starting to seem like a cheap plot device!"

"Don't upset the author." Came back Sherlock's warning.

"What?"

"It's a joke, John." Sherlock was pacing around the flat. "I don't see what the big problem is with the milk. Just go out and buy some more."

"That's hardly the point, Sherlock. I'm trying to say that _I _certainly don't use all the milk that quickly. And unless we have some very smart cats sneaking into our flat at night, I suspect you've been having some."

"Don't be more idiotic than usual." The pacing stopped. "Eating slows me down."

"Eating, yes, but you've never said anything about _drinking_." John accused. "I'm getting tired of running so many trips down to the shop! It'd be novel if you decided to do your fair share and took some errands."

Sherlock did not appreciate this proposal.

"I've told you multiple times, John. My talents are better spent on solving cases, not wasted on mundane tasks."

"You sound like I'm an idiot for even suggesting that."

"You are."

There were times John tired of being the replacement insult-bag in lieu of Donovan and Anderson. Torn between teaching Sherlock a lesson and fulfilling a flatmate's civic duty, civic duty won out.

"Where could you possibly be going in the middle of our argument?"

Sherlock spoke of John's sudden move to the front door, made in what could be anger or surrender.

"Because I have an impossible faltmate who apparently can never let me win, I'll be out getting the milk. Be back soon."

/-/

Getting the groceries had never really bothered the doctor. It was Sherlock's arrogance and the fact he took his compliance for granted that _really_ got under his skin. In the end, John made it all the way to the store, purchased what he needed, and had made it to a few steps out of the shop, milk in hand before a text stopped him.

_Need sugar as well._

_-SH-_

If it wasn't one thing, it was another. Darn Sherlock and his tradition of passing every little oddity under the sun as being part of 'an experiment!'

With a huff, John went back, fetched the requested item, had another row with the machine, and stepped out. It was a block later when he received another message.

_Some flour, too._

_-SH-_

And so the pattern continued. Every time John would go back to the store, he would start on the trip back, only making a few more paces past his last walk before his mobile would vibrate. In turn he was sent back for butter, cinnamon, lard, and a half-dozen apples. Finally, arms full with his load, John stood outside the flat, half-expecting to be called once again. No such call came, and he was able to make it all the way in before confronting Sherlock, who was standing quite smug.

"I suppose you're proud of yourself?"

"Not at all, doctor. I just was remembering some things I thought I needed for an experiment."

"_Thought _you needed?"

"Yes. Quite incorrectly, I'm afraid. It looks like getting all that was a waste."

"Waste?"

"Yes. Well- _almost_ a waste. As it turns out, I was looking through some papers, and happened upon my mother's old apple pie recipe. Bit American, I fear, but to give her credit, it _was_ good." A sly look came over his face. "I don't suppose you're any good at baking?"

John couldn't help it. For all Sherlock's insufferableness, he had a way of turning things around as quickly as they'd become unbearable. If there was one thing he could salvage now, it would be his pride.

"The best."

The kitchen began to fill up with the supplies necessary for making a pie. John working, Sherlock watching, they made quick work and a fine team. It wasn't until John floured his hands and began measuring out the lard for the crust that Sherlock made one final comment.

"Do you think you can nip over one last time for some nicotine patches?"

_Revenge: The fetcher's time shall be more and more occupied with errands._


	9. Transgression no 9

**Okay, only one chapter left (If the 10 commandments can sum up the points, so can 10 transgressions)! I know John's getting picked on quite a bit, but it's so goshdarn hard to portray him otherwise. I feel almost evil for saying it, but I'm glad my Home Guard friend is gone now, since it gives me more time for writing and other work. Thanks for sticking through this series, and the last chapter will be up shortly!**

**/-/**

_Transgression #9: Nobody shall dare place Sherlock as the butt of any joke._

Lestrade was a fine man, if a bit daft now and then, Sherlock supposed. But expecting him and John to hang around police headquarters until the suspect was detained was one step too far. Really, they were _concerned_ about their safety? John was an army doctor who could protect himself, and half the force would be _cheering_ if Sherlock got shot up by some rogue criminal.

John hadn't seen the problem with being stuck in the cold, brick building. Heavens, he actually _enjoyed_ being there. He _got on_ with the idiots there. Sherlock, on the other hand, could only pass the time by wandering about the interior, making mental deductions and eavesdropping on conversations he _really _wasn't meant to hear.

Take the conversation in room 304, for example. Firm wooden door, gave a sense of security to the two people inside the room now. Open, though, showing that what they're talking about is private, but they wouldn't be too embarrassed if someone were to walk in. So it's two colleagues then, passing time with gossip, most likely, than any sort of 'office action.'

"It's not you that bothers me. It's the freak. He gets off on it, you know."

There was Sally talking, Sherlock didn't need to hear the 'freak' comment to assess that. Curiosity, over any other sensation, prompted him to stay behind the door's corner. Perhaps without his presence Donovan would be able to come up with a more clever insult.

"He does not!"

But oh, that was John. He must have finished up talking with Lestrade. What a flatmate, defending Sherlock like that against Sally. Good man. Salt of the Earth.

"-I can, as a man privy to his personal life, tell you my suspicions on what he _does_ get off on, though."

Hold that thought. John was _consorting with the enemy?_

Sherlock would have had little problem with turning the corner just then and letting the others know he had heard their conversation thus far. Having little social grace before, he wouldn't have needed to worry about awkwardness- well, at least none on _his_ part. It was just his ever-pressing curiosity that had him stay back, listen to the rest of the conversation.

"You know Sherlock's got a skull? He tells me that he considers it his friend, but I'd say he thinks of it as a little _more_ than a friend, if you know what I mean."

What. The hell. Was John doing?

Sally must have been thinking the same thing because there was a long pause before she answered.

"Oh. _Oh!_ You're joking!"

Sherlock let out a breath of air he didn't know he was holding. Somehow he appreciated the obvious being pointed out by Sally. Still…

"Of course I am! Really, you think Sherlock's reputation can be brought down with a lewd joke? No, it's pretty demolished already. It's not like anything I say can make it worse."

John and Sally could have carried on. Heck, they could have killed Moriarty or began shagging, for all Sherlock cared.

Damn the criminal. Damn Lestrade. Damn the stupid concerns for his life.

He was going back to the flat.

It would have been too much trouble to explain why he needed to leave to Lestrade. That would have required him to give a detailed background of how he acquired his skull, why he deserved clemency from any jail time, what made him love that skull so much, then which bit of John and Sally's conversation required Sherlock to respond with extreme measures. It seemed ridiculous, though, to have to go through such lengths to avoid the DI, Sherlock shook his head as he climbed down from the roof. He hated the idea of his escape- no, _calm departure_- being so dependent on the possibility someone looked up.

Thankfully, all the passerby below were too absorbed in their everyday, _dull _lives, unable to see a black-clad figure twenty feet above their own heads.

Heck, they were dull enough to not even notice when said figure made an embarrassing amount of racket landing on a dumpster from stated height.

From the dumpster on, it was no trouble getting back to the flat. Simply take a right, three blocks until veering North, circling to the East to avoid the riot broken out at the barbers, then straight on to home sweet home.

Once at 'home sweet home,' there was a mission to accomplish. Lestrade could insist that there were no cases, but so long as John insisted on transgressing on Sherlock's laws, there would always be something to occupy his time. Currently, the most fitting way to respond to his insolence was to begin on a scavenger hunt.

The first thing to find was some gas. Easy. There was that experiment last week that resulted in some highly flammable liquids (strong enough to burn a leg to ash in twenty minutes flat, but that was neither here nor there). That went into the den.

The next were some matches. Laughable. What kind of respectable scientist would he be if he didn't have anything to light fires with? A few seconds poking around in the silverware drawer procured a box.

Finally came the last thing he needed. John's jumpers.

They were the most difficult thing to find out of his three easy steps. John, though normally army neat, had a special indifference to his jumpers, content enough to throw them over chairs, beds, on the floor, haphazardly out of a drawer, than call the room 'clean.' It took nearly ten minutes for Sherlock to gather what he guessed to be all of his flatmate's jumpers out of his room. There were several he hadn't seen John wear before, but going by the number of brown socks John had, Sherlock was sure he collected all the jumpers.

He brought them over to the den with loving attention. They were, after all, John's favorite items of clothing. They deserved every ounce of respect he had. Thus, with every bit of tender care he could give, he unceremoniously dumped them into the firepit. Next came a through dousing with the flammable liquid, then a lit match.

With a '_woosh'_ not too different from that one time he'd set Mycroft's umbrella on fire, John's jumpers went up in a blaze.

It inspired such a merry glow in the flat, Sherlock was almost tempted to hang a bow of holly on the mantle and begin singing Yule songs. Rather than Christmas songs gracing his ears, though, the irregular thus of footsteps came from the foyer. Psychosomatic limps or not, there was only one person who walked like that.

"Afternoon, John."

"Don't give me that," John was hardly in the mood for pleasant conversation. "You left me behind. _Again!_ I had to inquiry _everyone _where you'd left to! I was just lucky Juvland saw you heading in the flat's direction. How he knows where we live I'll never know."

"He's been trying to stalk me for the past three weeks. I use the term 'stalking' loosely, because that would imply that he has any stealth. Would you mind telling him I'm in a relationship next time you talk with him?"

"Your work, right." John began nodding, than stopped. "Wait a minute. No. I'm not about to do favors for you when you leave me behind, sulk, go sporting off shit apologies, and…is that a jumper?"

Sherlock looked down. Sticking out of the fireplace was the entire sleeve of a jumper. Deftly, he kicked the leg back into the flames. "No."

He couldn't imagine why, but John wasn't satisfied with this answer. Taking a step closer, he peered into the burning pile. "It is! _They are!_ Those are my jumpers!"

There wasn't any point in trying to deny what both of them knew any further. "I'm trying to help you, John. They were hideous."

"They're _my jumpers!"_

No matter how many times Sherlock tried to point it out to John, the doctor kept doing it. Whenever he was angry or stressed, he would continuously state the obvious. It was quite adorable, actually. Like a puppy who kept chasing his tail, even after being told it was attached to him, and he could never catch it.

"Relax, John. If you're worried about running out of shirts, you've got plenty of polo's to choose from. Besides, for every action there is an equal and opposite reaction. This was simply fulfilling the laws of physics."

"But what did I ever do?" Even through is confusion, there was nothing more for John to argue, since Sherlock refused to answer. With nothing more to do, and plenty of anger to calm away, John retreated to his room. There he felt alone enough to do enough sulking to rival that of an off-case Sherlock. Passing through the room over to the stairs, he completely missed a lump of fabric on the end table, lying next to a note. If he'd taken the time to read it, he would have seen the words '_To John'_ inked in fine script, above an arrow pointing to the object. If he'd taken the time to pick it up, he would have been shocked to find a brand new, unburnt jumper just his size- cashmere, cable-knit, and waiting to be worn.

But he was far too blinded to see it resting there, so he passed it by. And that was just fine by Sherlock. There were some things that John couldn't appreciate in his rage, and he was fine with waiting until he cooled down.

Because in all his simmering anger, Sherlock knew that no matter how bothered he was at John, he would always be willing to offer a peace branch just as quickly.

_Revenge: Just as Sherlock's stoic reputation is dear to him, the death of something dear to the trespasser shall result._

_/-/_

**As always, reviews are heartily appreciated! I need to determine whether to try another multi-chapter story or not**


	10. Transgression no 10

_Transgression #10: No one shall obtain knowledge of Sherlock's list of transgressions._

"Sherlock, what's this?"

Innocent question, innocent object being held up. Sherlock's early deductions would have him believe all was well.

Thank science he never went by first appearances alone. Upon further investigation, Sherlock noted a cover of red on John's face, the slight shaking of his hands, and eyes narrowed thirty-three percent further than usual.

Final conclusion: John was angry. Going by the size and thickness of the paper he was holding, Sherlock knew precisely what was causing him to be so furious.

"John, I'd ask you how you found that list, but as I know where I had hidden it, I believe a better question would be 'why were you in my underwear drawer'?"

"Putting away all the laundry _you _ never bother to clean up. I was just putting away _your _things, when I noticed this." John held the paper up, voice becoming more and more mocking as he began to read the points on it. "_Transgression #1: Nobody may touch Sherlock's skull without his express permission. Transgression #2: It is strictly forbidden for anybody to exalt themselves higher than Sherlock in Mrs. Hudson's eyes. __Transgression, transgression, transgression, REVENGE!"_

_At the last word John roared, almost startling Sherlock out of his regular position on the couch. _

_"After all the grief this list has caused by, going by the fact all the revenges match up with the things I've gone through in the past months, what do you have to say?"_

_"You broke the laws of my flat."_

_In all retrospect, there were better things Sherlock could have said._

"ARE YOU _BLOODY SERIOUS_? I've nearly lost my wits, sanity, and property from everything you've done!"

Sherlock had the decency to look slightly embarrassed. Or was that put out?

"To be fair, you _were _acting like a doormat."

"That's because I was trying to be a _DAMN GOOD FLATMATE!_ You _told_ me you were an oddball. I knew living with you would be _somewhat_ of a challenge…but I had no idea it would be this bad!"

Even with the stopped flow of words, John was far from over. Taking a few breaths, he continued on.

"I've heard warnings from plenty of people, Sherlock. I've heard them from Lestrade, from Sally, Anderson…hell, even _Molly._ To me, it sounded like you just needed someone with thick enough skin to live with you. I thought 'hey- I've been in the Army. I've been _shot_! I've spent months side by side traumatized and crazy men. How bad can this Sherlock be?" John stormed up to Sherlock, face to face, nose to nose, "And when you started acting like a _bloody psycho _for no reason, I told myself to grin and bear it. Maybe it wouldn't last long! Maybe it was some sort of demented initiation ritual for being your flatmate! But _NO!_ It was a _childish_, _insane_ attempt at retribution for things I'd done wrong that I didn't even _know_ I'd done wrong!"

"What was I supposed to do? _Tell _you not to do all the things on the list?"

John growled, an unnatural sound coming from _him_. "Yes, Sherlock. You _tell_ the people! I've got more than half a mind just to pack up and leave _right now_."

Out of all the things to be said, the last sentence was the only one to draw a visible response from Sherlock. Shaking his head, he sobered his face, managing to look more regretful than defensive.

"If it means so much, I'll tear it up. I'll get rid of the list."

"I don't think you would. Do you swear?"

"I promise. Especially because you've managed to cross every single law I've produced."

John narrowed his eyes in suspicion. "I really don't believe you. You've got _that_ look. How do I know you're telling the truth?

In response, Sherlock held up the list, clear as day for John to see. With a sudden, deft movement, he moved his hands apart, ripping the paper in half. Encouraged by John's gaping mouth, he continued further, ripping the paper into smaller and smaller pieces, dismantling it beyond repair.

As the bits of paper fluttered to the ground, a calmer look settled on John's face. "Well…I can't say I forgive you yet, but that's the end of that." He waved his hands in a gesture of finality. "I'm just glad for once you're resolving this bit in a simple manner. You do realize that we could have avoided all this if you had just _told_ me what you prefer I didn't do, right?"

"Quite."

"And seeing that we've finally reached the end of all this…" John seemed ready to make through with another threat, when Sherlock jumped in with a full sentence.

"Why don't you go to Sarah's? She'll take care of you there."

A surprised look from John. "Really?" He froze. "But you hate her. You mean it?"

"Mmm-hmm." Sherlock didn't bother to look at the increasingly amazed doctor. "You deserve it. I've been right rotten. Enjoy."

There was a self-satisfied 'hmph' of gratification from John, then the door slammed, signifying his departure. Depending on how well things went with Sarah, John would be more forgiving in anywhere from a week to seventeen and a half days.

All alone in the flat now, Sherlock formed a content look of his own before leaning across the couch to the end table and the notepad that lay there. Retrieving a pen from his robe pocket, the detective began to scribble his thoughts down. As he jotted, his writing became more and more hurried; more inspired, and more motivated.

After several minutes, he stopped, at ease with the notes he had. With a nod, he rose to hide his papers. It wouldn't do for John to find his latest draft.

_Revenge: Sherlock shall craft a new list of transgressions for future reference._

_/-/_

**Well, that's it! The end of my first multi-chapter story! Thank you all who have read through it- I heartily appreciate your reviews, favorites, and story alerts. If you would do one last thing, I would be very grateful if you give me one final (or first) review, letting me know what you thought, if you'd encourage me to do another multi-chap, or even letting me know how your day is going (okay, the last is a stretch, but if you take the time to review, you ought to be able to write idle things as you will).**

**Thanks again, and 'ha det bra' till dere!**

**HF**


End file.
